


a whole week of bad days

by wordtheef



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Fuckbuddies, Fucking, Handcuffs, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, Modern Era, Oral Sex, Poor Life Choices, Roommates, Sex, not really friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-20 19:07:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21061691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordtheef/pseuds/wordtheef
Summary: He kissed her — pushing her off-balance against the wall. “You want to be fucked? Fine. I want you to take off your clothes and get on my bed.”She stammered.“Now.”She obeyed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> author’s note:  
this fic mysteriously double-posted; i deleted one copy to help keep the Archive tidy. my apologies to those who bookmarked/commented on the other version :/

She came in from work and let the door slam, dropping her bag unto the floor, prying off one shoe with the toe of the other, sweatshirt stuck on its way over her head and swearing about it.

“You could try being quieter,” said Jaime, stretched on the couch. “Other people live here.”

"You could try fucking off." She disengaged the hoodie, removed the other shoe, and stomped off into the kitchen.

"And so cheerful. How was work?"

Brienne opened a beer and drank half of it without speaking, standing in the light from the refrigerator door.

"That's my beer," said her roommate.

"You have a trust fund."

"And you had a bad day. Wanna talk about it?"

She drank the rest of the beer in two long swigs. "I'm getting another. You want?"

"No. Brienne, drinking is one thing but drinking in silence is something else. Don't turn into a Tyrion on me."

"I got fired." She plopped down on the sofa, sipping her second. 

Jaime looked at her and narrowed his eyes slightly. "I'm going to put the tea on. Talk, wench. What happened? Who would fire you? You're honorable and trustworthy to a fault."

"Yeah, well. That's a liability when you find your boss with her hand in the till."

Muffled by the walls of the kitchenette, he said: "Didn't anyone ever tell you? Discretion is the better part of valor."

Fine words. She rubbed her hand on her nose. 

He peered at her. "Are you crying?"

"No. Jesus, _no_. I don't _cry_."

"Bree," he said. "It's okay."

"You don't understand. Not all of us are bankrolled by family money. If I don't have a job, I don't make rent. If I don't make rent, I'll have to go back to my stepmother, --"

"You think I'll kick you out?"

"I don't need your charity."

"Charity!" said Jaime. "Brienne, I -- wait."

She sniffed, rubbed her eye clear, and and looked around.

The place was an untidy combination of cheap and desultory objects. Her old bookshelves in one corner -- a halfway decent television on a broken trunk -- 

and Jaime Lannister himself, walking around in track shorts and a free race-day tshirt, looking messy and beautiful and _expensive_.

“I think we should fuck,” said Brienne.

She saw at once that she hadn’t timed this well: when she spoke, Jaime was in mid-stride, carrying a mug of tea across the room.

Fortunately for the state of the carpets, he was not given to clumsiness. He came to a graceful halt and asked politely if she could please repeat herself.

“I'm not seeing anyone. And you aren’t, ever since Cersei ... And sex is good stress relief, isn’t it? I'm stressed. And you,” she licked her mouth. “You look _terribly_ stressed.”

He did in fact look a bit strained. Still he found a coaster and neatly put down his drink, stirring it once and settling the spoon nearby, before he spoke.

Fucking posh Lannisters. Brienne had the urge to knock over a stack of magazines or upend the vacuum bag on the floor.

“Stress relief?” he said.

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t aware that girls experienced that sort of stress.” He glanced at her. “Women, I mean.”

“Horniness is not a gender-specific issue, Lannister.”

"Is this some sort of reverse charity thing for you? Are you doing this in lieu of rent? You don't need to prostitute yourself. You can be late on rent for once. You can fucking not pay it. I don't care."

"We agreed to split things down the middle."

"You always empty the milk when it goes bad, you wash all the tea towels, you remind me about my dentist appointments -- "

"Only because you forget every time."

"And," he said, "you've never, never used all the hot water when I need to shower. Unlike some Lannisters I could mention."

Brienne cleared her throat. "You only did that once."

"Three times."

"Twice."

"Hmm," said Jaime. He was watching steam unfurl from his tea.

Brienne was watching him harden. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Nothing.”

“We would still be friends.”

“Oh,” said Jaime, in the tone she hated most. “Are we friends?”

“Roommates. We could still be roommates. I wouldn’t care if you went back to Cersei —“

“That will not happen.”

Sure. “Or if you and Melara start up again—“

“We barely even kissed, and I never slept with her. Though she did ask." He looked nostalgic. "Repeatedly.”

“Jaime. I don’t need commitment or even a snuggle afterwards. I only need a good fuck.” Possibly two.

He shifted — giving his increasingly-strained shorts a smidge more room — but whatever his cock felt on the matter, his face seemed unconvinced. “Flattering, but no. It wouldn’t work. We can’t even agree on whose turn it is to haul the bins to the curb.”

"Look. I only want — I’m sad and angry and I need someone to fuck it out of me, and you’ve sat down next to me and watched Netflix for months, half-hard the whole time, but you won’t even --"

"Brienne, what is _wrong_ with you today? This isn't only about your idiot boss."

She grabbed a fistful of shirt and kissed him.

He pulled away. "You don't want me like this. You're only upset and --"

She kissed him again: and this time he kissed back. 

His mouth was gentle, his lips were chapped where he'd been chewing on them, and when she tried to move away, he let her go. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No, but --"

He kissed her, more sure this time, and this time his arm went around her back and he pressed her down into the couch and, oh god, this was the beginning of a thousand and one fantasies she'd had about him since they were paired together to do interpersonal interviews in Psych 103.

("First sexual experience?" she'd said, blushing faintly just looking at him.

"Umm," he said. "Nine years old, with my -- friend, in the women's bathroom at church. Or maybe we were ten. Definitely at church though. You?")

Now he was breathing quick and light, kissing her like she was precious, and oh god he was getting there oh _god_. His mouth went down her neck and bit into the skin above her breast, he licked her nipple and _why_ was he wearing so many _clothes?_ "Jaime? I could blow you."

"I'm sure you have many talents." He sounded a bit strangled. "Would you like to take this out of the living room?"

"Only if you take off your trousers."

"You do it for me," he said: and pulled her behind him into his bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

Staying out of Jaime’s room was part of the tacit agreement they’d drawn up along with official things like a chore chart and _no overnight guests without prior agreement._

He never had guests stay over, far as she knew. His relationship with Cersei — such as it was — occurred in undisclosed locations. In a full year of living with Jaime, Brienne had only met her once.

“You must be the roommate,” Cersei had said — making the word analagous to _cockroach_ or _vomit_ or _sewer_. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“So glad we finally got to meet,” lied Brienne.

Jaime emerged then, looking tense. “Time to go, or we’ll be late. Brienne — I won’t be back tonight.”

They went out to the waiting car: and Brienne, through the open window, heard Cersei ask to be told again why he felt the need to _slum it._

Humph_._

For her part, Brienne had enjoyed the evening company of Red Connington many, many times — until he turned out to be fucking a waitress on the side.

Hyle Hunt spent a single night, proposed in the morning, and wouldn’t accept Brienne’s repeated refusals until a bare-to-the-waist Jaime emerged from his own room, looking trim and dangerous, asking if there was a problem.

Then Hyle called her a _slut_ and _tramp_ and _stupid cunt,_ but it didn’t matter really because he left.

None of these things made Brienne more likely to tresspass into Jaime’s space.

She didn’t know what she expected of it — some sex dungeon, perhaps, done in black and red silk? Chains and whips and spreader bars.

The walls were a cool grey, the linens were blandly white, and the only thing visibly personal was the latest book in a popular, perpetually unfinished fantasy series. 

Brienne choked on a laugh. “You don’t seem like a fan of the swords-and-dragons genre.”

“Are we here to discuss literature?”

”Oh,” said Brienne. “Is that book supposed to be _literature_?” 

Jaime stepped close. ”I swear that if your shirt isn’t off in the next three seconds, I’ll make you regret it.”

She half-expected him to start counting aloud, like a schoolteacher; but no. He only waited as she pulled it over her head, making sure to spend a long time about it.

She was bare underneath and she expected him to comment on that too, but he only kissed her — he had to raise up on his feet to do it — and pushed her on to the bed.

She still couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

A year they’d lived together, a year since he answered her ad, leaving such a dryly professional message on her voicemail that he immediately shot to the top of the list, far above people who sounded as if they’d called her going home from one party and driving to the next one.

Jaime was tidy, paid rent, and stayed politely reserved most of the time. He didn’t steal her food, sell her stuff for drug money, or try to accidentally walk in on her in the shower, all of which had happened with former roommates. It seemed ideal until she overheard a message left by his brother, concerning “our sweet sister Cersei.”

Presumably that was the same Cersei with whom he’d had a long, noisy, drawn-out fight the night before — followed by a loud, noisy, drawn-out, extensively dirty bout of phone sex.

He’d merged from his room with red cheeks and bright eyes, and nearly collided with Brienne. “I didn’t realize you were home.”

“Just got in,” she lied. _I definitely didn’t hear you talk about going down on your sister._

She’d expected to stop wanting him then, knowing him better. But he still joined her to watch CNN and argue politics, and he still bought pizza every Friday night, and he still made no attempt to hide the state of his cock when he saw her in tight jeans or a dress, going out for the night.

He was Jaime. Being near him made her wet.

He unbuttoned her jeans and pulled them off, with her underpants too.

Brienne squeaked. “Don’t I get a safe word?”

“_No_ or _Stop_ or _Don’t_ all work for me, unless you need something formal.”

He was such a dick sometimes. “What if I say it in French?”

He ran a hand up her thigh, stopping at the hair. “French is fine. So are German, Dutch, and —”

“You’re fucking with me. You do not speak four languages.”

“The benefits of a European childhood. Brienne — your knees are locked together like you’re a girl in church with a nasty vicar. Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He moved closer, teasing her legs apart, pushing in the tip of a finger. “Gods, you’re wet. Are you blushing? Where does this modesty come from? I’ve listened to you fuck one boyfriend after another, and the whole time I —”

He stopped. 

“What.”

“You’re not the only one who gets _stressed_.” And he added another finger, and a third, and she found herself rising up off the bed with each stroke, clutching at his arm until he said something rude and bent down, adding his tongue — licking her like a cat, eager and rough — and when she lost her words expect for _Jaime, Jaime_ he finally shifted his hips and his cock where she wanted it, pushing into her body and swearing aloud the worst things she’d ever heard anyone say while he kissed her again and again, saying _Brienne _like her name was a curse he’d brought on himself_._

She opened her eyes to find Jaime was staring at her — and while it was not altogether objectionable to have the most beautiful man in the world naked next to her, his expression did not give confidence. He seemed — angry? Certainly grim. He said: “I’m going to take a shower.”

And he did.

Somewhat numbly Brienne got up, testing her balance on the floor, gathering her clothes, falling into her own bed and falling asleep almost at once.

She did not dream.

The next day was spent swearing at her résumé and a printer, trying not to think about what had happened and failing, repeatedly.

Jaime came in at three, looking like a sheathed weapon. He nodded at her in what was surely meant to be a greeting and went to his room.

Brienne followed.

It took him a long time to answer her knock — far longer than circumstances required — even considering he’d changed from an old-money-casually-businesslike getup to his particular version of ratty workout attire. “I’m going to go for a run,” he said. “We can talk after.”

“I don’t need to talk. I only meant to tell you that Cersei called.”

He went still. “She left a message on the machine?”

“I erased it by accident. My finger slipped.” The replay button was right next to the delete button, and it was easy to confuse them when you were listening to Cersei’s silky, confident tones and remembering the way Jaime had once called her _the love of my life._

That was before he had buried his face between Brienne’s thighs — but she doubted last night had changed anything.

Jaime looked tense. “She does that to people.”

“She ... what?”

“She makes them make mistakes. Brienne, I really need to leave. I had — today wasn’t — and I need to go. I need to go and have a run. Now.”

“Stress relief?” she said.

“Stress relief,” he said. And then he caught her hand, reaching for his face: “Don’t.”

“Let me help.”

And when he softly protested again — _You don’t need to do this, I don’t want you to feel you need to do this _— she shook her head. No one was forcing her, no one was pressuring her; it was only the hot bite of envy and desire that clenched in her stomach, hearing that phone message play through for the _third_ time

_Jaime, it’s been too long. Call me. _A pause, a long pause, and then: _I miss you._

Brienne reached for his waistband with the same hard tense possessiveness that made her jab _delete_, and she slipped her hand inside while his lips parted, his tongue came out pink to lick and his teeth bit down, and then she dropped to her knees.

When she had both hands around his cock, when he was hardening for her, she glanced up — not sure even now of what he would say or think or do — but his eyes were shut and his face was blank and his left hand clenching on empty air.

Alright.

It had been a while since she’d done this, and it wasn’t ever her favorite act, but she’d be damned if Jaime left the house looking like that. So.

She tasted him tentatively and then with more interest, when it twitched; she licked along the side and then across the head, once and twice, and then Jaime made a rough noise — he didn’t have his hand forcing her down, he was trembling a little bit and gods he smelled good even here and, well, fuck it. She took him in her mouth.

It was different without someone pushing on her head, saying how much better she looked on her knees; she could take her time, she could lick up the veins and find places that made him shiver and she could even relax her throat a bit, swallowing. She ran her nails up the back of his legs and dragged them back down, and Jaime whimpered; she pushed down the soft skin of his cock and blew cool air on the tip and he swore.

At one point he touched her face and she thought — she thought —

but he only rubbed his thumb over her eyebrow, cupping her jaw, and said her name.

He said it again a moment later, warning her, as if she didn’t notice the change in his taste and his breath and the way he shook under his skin.

She moved off and stood and kissed him on the mouth, finishing him with her hand while he held her face, kissing her like he wanted this part most of all.


	3. Chapter 3

”The first rule is, no kissing.”

“Yes. I mean, no.”

“None,” looking at her mouth. “I shouldn’t have kissed you the other day. That was a mistake.”

Brienne nodded. _A mistake._ “No strings. If we want to fuck someone else, we fuck someone else. Inside the flat or outside it.”

“Mm,” said Jaime. “Am I to be exposed to an endless parade of Hyles and Conningtons, now? And who was that stringy one — Brandt? Brondt?”

“Bronn. And you’re wrong. I never fucked Bronn.”

“You sound like a certain US President. _I never has sexual relations ..._ Anyone who makes you moan like that is fucking you.”

“Jealous, Lannister?”

It took him a moment to reply. “Jealousy is against the rules.”

“Good. Because I have a date.” And she smiled.

Whatever reaction she’d hoped for was not forthcoming; he merely narrowed his eyes. “You’re a busy girl.”

“He swiped right,” said Brienne: and went to get dressed.

Dinner went well, and drinks went better; by midnight she was inviting him inside, telling him to keep his voice down. “My roommate is probably asleep ...”

“She can join us, if you like.”

Brienne tried to keep her smile friendly at the comparison of Theon — who was rather boyish — and Jaime’s quiet intensity. “_He_ has to work in the morning.”

Theon only shrugged. “I’ll be quiet enough. Can’t make promises for what noise you might do.”

He certainly applied himself with vigor, and Brienne supposed that if she hadn’t had a very recent, very interesting event to compare him to —

During the middle of things, when she was doing her best to sound enthusiastic, she heard the sound of Jaime’s bedroom door opening and shutting again.

Theon might have heard it too; he redoubled his efforts.

Brienne put a hand to herself, thought of Jaime, and managed to come.

She kicked him out (“Tinder is not sleepaway camp!”) and snuck back to her room for an unsettled rest.

Jaime was there in the morning, drinking her coffee and lounging around in the sunlight like a goddamn lizard.

Brienne hadn’t showered yet or brushed her teeth; she wore an old tshirt and very small pyjama bottoms, and it shouldn’t have been a problem for someone to see her like that when the someone had seen her naked — but somehow it was. She brushed past him. “Is that my coffee?”

“Yep.”

“That’s _expensive_ coffee.”

“Tastes like it,” said Jaime, and grinned at her. “Long night, sleepyhead?”

He’d made enough coffee for her, too, bless him. Things like that were why she kept him around.

Also the sex.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“Called in sick.”

“You don’t even have a sniffle. You don’t even have a _hangnail_.” She glared pointedly at his hands — which were, of course, professionally manicured to a very masculine standard.

“That is true,” he said. “But I was thinking that you might ... need some help.”

She felt herself blush. “I was fucked plenty last night. You might have heard.”

“You didn’t enjoy it.”

“I came.”

He moved closer — too close — and put his arms around her waist — sliding them down to rub into her ass. “That isn’t what you sound like when you come, Brienne.” His mouth on her jawline; his tongue on her ear. “This isn’t how you smell afterwards.” His hand moved to cup her breast, the thumb rubbing over her nipple, and she arched into his body.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

“Arrête,” said Brienne, nearly breathless. He was rubbing the fabric over her cunt and oh fuck, _fuck, _—

“Liar,” said Jaime. “And your pronounciation is terrible.” But he stilled his hands.

She swallowed hard. “You’re a pig-headed shit fucker.”

“Admit you like me better,” he said, “or I’ll handcuff you and bring you to the verge and leave you begging.”

“What happened to _no jealousy?” _she said.

He laughed out loud. “I’m not jealous, you ridiculous girl — I’m _confident_.” He played at the edge of her skin. “Say it.”

“No. You already think too well of yourself.” She heard herself sounding hot, sounding breathless and ready, wanting him. _Goddammit_.

And Jaime let go of her, stepping away. “Probably for the best.” He wandered to his coffee — _her_ coffee! — and took a sip.

”What do you mean?”

”I’m going out tonight. I don’t want to disappoint my date.” He considered this. “Unlikely as that might be.”

No jealousy, Brienne thought. None. Not even a shred. “Tinder?”

Something passed over his face that she couldn’t read. “Cersei,” he said.


	4. Chapter 4

The sounds coming from the other room were absolutely obscene. Brienne put in earbuds and turned up Netflix and she could still hear —

Whatever it was that was happening.

She hadn’t considered exactly how thin the walls were when she was the one participating in athletic cardiovascular activity.

If turnabout was any indication, Jaime had heard almost everything. Grunts and moans and the sound of flesh-on-flesh, which never seemed especially gross in the moment but felt humiliating in her current retrospective mood, like she had been caught drinking from a milk carton: both animalistic and rude.

She brushed her teeth, irritated. Rich people should have found a way to make sex quiet. Or less sticky. At least it shouldn’t involve endless repetitions of _I love you I missed you I’ve waited so long oh yes there there yes harder Jaime yes._

Apparently the wealthy handled fucking like their other needs: they outsourced the messy bits. The sheets would be changed and the condoms replaced as if by good fairies, and no one would see Cersei until her makeup was perfectly refreshed.

Brienne, not charmed by her proximity to old money, rinsed out her mouth and spit with a little more force than necessary. She returned to her room, shut and locked the door, and wished for the first time that she hadn’t ever met Jaime.

Her mood, when she woke in the morning, was not much improved — and it took a sharp dive into asphalt when she stumbled to the living space and found a pair of Lannisters.

Seeing them next to each other, she wondered how she’d ever missed their shared DNA. Cersei looked so much like Jaime: softly curling hair in a natural shade of honey-blonde; cheekbones that didn’t need contour; green eyes with an unforgiveable amount of amusement, at least on Cersei’s part.

She was staring at the full pouty mouth, thinking uncomfortably that she knew what it would be like to kiss Cersei, when Jaime spoke. “Brienne, this is —“

“We’ve met.” He hadn’t made coffee this morning, the bastard. Another tally-mark against him.

“So we have,” said Cersei. “I didn’t recognize you without clothes on.”

Brienne looked at her own body — which was decently if not fully covered in an oversized shirt — and said nothing aloud.

“Is that Jaime’s shirt?”

“Yes,” shortly.

“Jaime said that you’re unemployed. Do you ... do you need some help to get your own things?”

“Cersei,” said her brother. “You are a guest here. If you can’t manage to be nice, at least be polite. Brienne has her life well under control.”

“I was only going to offer assistance,” she said: and then they were squabbling.

Like children, thought Brienne, rinsing out her favorite mug, filling it with juice, drinking and watching them. Jaime was smiling but he looked tense; there was something about his shoulders. And Cersei was elegant and graceful, pretending to be vapid.

It was a lie; it had to be. They’d broken up and then she called and then Jaime ... Jaime and Brienne ...

_I’ve heard so much about you, _she’d said when they first met. Brienne had assumed those were words of course — but what if that was true?

She finished her drink and rinsed the mug again and put it in the drainer and listened to the argument.

Cersei was calling out Jaime for poor life choices, a habit which appeared to be of long standing, and Jaime was defending himself with a bored disinterest — he was in fact looking at Brienne’s legs meanwhile.

Cersei reminded him on which side his bread was buttered, and suggested that he might go entirely butterless in future.

Jaime rolled his eyes. “Bree — ignore her. We’ll be gone in a moment.”

“Don’t bother. I’m going for a run.”

No Lannister was evident when she came back in, sweaty and smelly and with a fine edge to her emotions.

Brienne took a very long shower. She came out wrapped in a towel and went to her room.

Jaime was sitting on her bed.

This was a clear breach of inviolate roommate boundaries. She stood there a moment, acutely aware that she was gangly and overly-tall, with wet stringy hair, barely covered by a towel and dripping water down her legs — while Jaime looked like ... Jaime. What an asshole. She said: “Your princess went back to her tower?”

“We had a discussion first.”

She’d heard their discussion last night. “I thought we agreed on no overnight guests.”

“Aside from your boyfriends, you mean? Don’t shake your head at me and protest innocence — you broke that rule two days ago.”

“Theon did not stay overnight.”

“You’re splitting hairs, Brienne. Does that ... burn off stress?”

“Shut up and get out of my room.”

He stood, but didn’t move to leave. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay a little longer?”

“Jaime,” she said. “Go.”

He went.

  
That evening, Brienne called a truce. She ordered in Chinese and knocked on his door with a pair of paper-wrapped chopsticks, as apology. “I ordered too much.”

“You always order too much,” he said. “Movie night?”

“You choose.” She snuck a glance at his face. “It’s the weekend. You’re supposed to be relaxed. And you know that if you ask for a hummer, I will stick this splintery wooden rod right through your dick.”

He smiled at her. “I would never suggest such a thing. If you must know, I spent the afternoon reading, and ... it didn’t end well. The plot, I mean.”

“You’re upset about a book?”

“My favorite character is in a very tricky—”

“You’re upset about a _fantasy novel.”_

“Listen respectfully, please. She was caught off-guard in a forest, and —”

“Your favorite character is a _woman?_ Oh, of course. And she’s tall and blonde and beautiful and never wears clothes.”

“She isn’t beautiful at all,” he said. “But I like her.”

He was looking at her.

Brienne, who was not beautiful, cleared her throat. “Weren’t you going to pick a movie?”

“She does wear clothes. Though there is a brief nude scene. I’m sorry about Cersei.”

“Sorry — why? That she was vile to me? Or that you fucked her all night?”

Jaime seemed ready to reply; then he tilted his head. “You sound quite jealous.”

“No. That’s against the rules.”

“Mm.”

“But,” and she took a deep breath. “I did think that it sounded a little ... off.”

That smile again, as if they were sharing a joke with a cruel punchline. “In what way?”

“That isn’t how you sound when you come.”

“What would you know about it?” he said.

And Brienne kissed him.

Jaime pushed her away. “None of that.”

She felt sick — stupid — a fool. “I thought we could — I thought —“

“No kissing,” he said. His voice was rough and his eyes were dark and he was so goddamn kissable, and he was looking at her like —

But. “You said, the other day, you said that you’d make me want it, you’d make me beg —“

“I did say that.”

She licked her mouth, deliberately slow, and his gaze followed. She reached out her hand and rubbed him. “Think you’re up for it?”

He was. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silk is nicer than handcuffs, and far less noisy.

“Lay down. And put your arms behind you.”

“What about my —“

He came near and drew her wrist up to the headboard and —

“Not handcuffs?”

“Stop complaining. Silk is quieter and more comfortable — quite comfortable if you don’t pull too much.”

“I didn’t agree to this.”

He settled back on his heels. “Do you want me to stop? No? Then please shut the fuck up.”

She wanted him. She would let him tie her, gag her, beat her with a riding crop if it meant he’d only take her. But beneath that was a hot fury.

_Take off your clothes and get on the bed _he’d told her, and when she had done it he pushed her down — and oh she liked it, she did, and the look on his face said he knew it.

She didn’t want him to know it. Coming here with Cersei — their fucking — saying Brienne was _jealous_ like he knew anything about it —

“Relax your arms or you’ll pull a muscle.”

She made a face. “This seems so ... bourgeois ... of you.”

“Keep mouthing off and I’ll gag you, too.” He hesitated, seeing something on her face. “You’re sure?”

“Fuck me, Lannister.”

He smiled a little then. “We’ll get to that.” And slowly, he took off his clothes.

It wasn’t fair that he was golden all over, and that the carpet matched the drapes; it wasn’t fair to see the tiny trail that lead down into his —

She swallowed.

Jaime, wonderfully and frustratingly nude, began to tease her. Tiny kisses and wet dots along her neck, behind her ears and along the collarbone; longer strokes on her arms, shoulders, the side of her ribs where it was so sensitive, the nerves jumping and twitching under her skin, like her hips jumped up without trying, like his cock twitched on her thigh as he ran his hands over her, slow slow slow ...

Brienne shivered. Bit her mouth. Held her tongue.

The worst of it wasn’t being edged; she’d done that before to herself. The worst was that it was Jaime.

Jaime.

She’d been in love before and she’d been in lust, and none of those men brought out ... whatever he brought out.

Anger. She’d been angry that first day, she’d wanted to punch someone or put her hand through a window, it was so _unfair_ to be fired like that and it stepped right on a rough spot — the disappointed expression when she went in for an interview. _We can’t hire someone who looks like you._

_It’ll get better when you’re older, _her father had said, and it didn’t; and then he got worse and worse and then he was gone: and who was there to tell her kind lies now?

Jaime hadn’t looked at her like that, when they first met. He’d blinked in surprise and she expected him to joke about playing basketball or how’s the weather, but all he did was hold out his hand, cool and strong and sure, and ask about the apartment’s water pressure ...

He made her feel like she was human. Despite her face and her height and her laugh. And then he brought that goddamn Cersei around just to rub it in that Brienne didn’t mean shit to him when she knew that already, she’d known that before they met ...

He said something against her skin and dug in his nails around her thigh.

God, why wouldn’t he fuck her? “Touch me,” she said.

“No.” More kisses, trailing away from where she wanted it most.

When had her ankle become an erogenous zone? When had anyone taken so long to go over her skin? “Jaime, please.”

“No,” roughly, and he went on, moving over her body. He lingered until one part of her felt raw — looking at her face, not at his work — and then he moved on.

Now he spread her legs apart and knelt between them, pressing his mouth to her clit, touching a single finger to it; now he licked once and laughed aloud at the sound she made; now he sat back on his heels.

“Fucker,” she said. Her throat was so dry.

Leisurely he stroked himself and, god, why was it so good to look at? “Brienne,” he said, “I told you to keep your arms relaxed. You’re straining again.”

“I’m thirsty. Give me something to put in my mouth.”

Jaime thought that was amusing, because of course he did. He used his own mouth instead — and tongue, and teeth — on her breasts, the same breasts she’d always considered too small or too loose or too something. No one else had ever seemed to think they were impressive either. Til now.

Long strokes down her outstretched arms, down her chest and waist, down her thighs and up again between her legs, while she arched up to try and catch his hand unawares, just to get that little bit of extra sensation, —

“Jaime!”

“Mm.” Again he licked her, and this time his tongue went inside and his hands kept down her hips —

She swore. “For god’s sake.”

He smiled at her, rubbing his thumb in a way that made her whimper, and hate herself. She thought she might hate him too. He said “You want something in your mouth? Try this.” — and gave her his index finger.

She recognized the taste. “I’m not wet enough?” It seemed ... unlikely.

“Oh,” he said, “you are.”

So he finally went into her body but it wasn’t enough wasn’t _enough _and he was too goddamn slow — even when he added his tongue it wasn’t good enough, not now, she needed more. “Please?”

“Not yet.” But he sounded strange, thick-tongued, and his hands weren’t smoothly deliberate anymore. “Not yet, Brienne. You need to wait.”

“I’ve already been waiting too long,” she said, in a voice that didn’t sound like her own — or maybe that was the honesty she didn’t recognize.

She shut her eyes.

He did something more but it didn’t matter, she was keyed up and tight all over, she was hot. When he finally went into her, it felt like the conclusion of something. Too much and not enough, too large in her body and still there was room for him to swell, saying things she wanted to hear and didn’t want to believe, kissing the edge of her mouth — not quite on her lips — and then kissing the corners of her eyes, where tears were just beginning to fall.

She hadn’t meant to cry, hadn’t done it since her father died, and it didn’t matter. She was dimly aware of the ties around her wrists being released, and Jaime saying something to her: but that didn’t seem to matter either, as he held her, as she cried. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We can’t just fuck every time one of us has uncomfortable emotions.”
> 
> “Well. Good for you. Not all men, indeed. But you know there aren’t many men like you.”
> 
> “There are no men like me,” said Jaime, grim. “I’m not trying to redeem my gender, you impossible thing. I’m apologizing.”

Brienne went to her bedroom, and Jaime followed. She shut and locked the door and he tried the handle; she clenched her jaw and he said her name. “Are you alright?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m sure you don’t. I’ll — nevermind. Just. Don’t do anything stupid. Will you be okay tonight?”

She stared at the door. “Yes.”

He said: “I’ll be here, if you want me. For — whatever you want.”

She thought she’d cry again but no: she only lay in bed and waited for the morning, knowing he’d knock again and talk through the door, waiting as long as he could before he left to work — as, indeed, he did.

A shower didn’t help. Coffee didn’t help. She found herself reading a NYT article about the very book series that Jaime was reading (“the fantasy of realistic fiction”) and that didn’t help either.

Eventually Jaime came home and greeted her calmly, like nothing was wrong — and what _was_ wrong?

Nothing.

She’d had consensual sex — _really good_ sex. It wasn’t Jaime’s fault that ... what? That she was ugly? that her father was dead, or Tinder was there when she was horny, or Ron Connington was a cheating asshole? None of that was about him, he hadn’t caused it or made it worse, so why ...

_Cersei_, she thought: but she didn’t give a shit about Cersei, or the creepy incestuous _whatever_ that was going on. Not really. She didn’t want to own Jaime. She only wanted ... What?

She listened to him moving around in his room, playing quiet music, holding a quiet conversation on the phone.

Judging by his tone, he didn’t seem to be speaking with Cersei. The brother, maybe?

She swiped left on her phone awhile and set it aside.

Fine.

A hand went down her pants easily enough, but the rest didn’t want to happen: she couldn’t focus on a fantasy, couldn’t get a rhythm, couldn’t even seem to get herself to a place where the pleasure was worth the trouble.

_Stress relief? _said Jaime in her memory. And herself, licking her mouth to bring his attention to her tongue: _You seem so tense_.

His knees pressing her legs apart. His hand thumbing at her — yes — his cock rubbing at her, teasing, he was always such a shit when he wanted — god — when he wanted her to — when he wanted —

_No kissing, _he’d said, his eyes dark, and _Admit you like me better._

Oh she did, she _did_. She liked him. He wasn’t afraid of her flaws — her height or her looks or her stubbornness; he hadn’t pulled away when she wept. He had said things — there — he had put his mouth on her body and brought her to shaking and he smiled about it — _Jaime_ —

She came, loudly, not bothering to muffle her voice.

  
He was gone when she woke up — to work, presumably — which was something of a relief. She felt as if she’d tumbled down the steps, or had been terribly ill: fragile in her skin.

Conspicuously placed in the living room was a full bag of coffee beans and a note in an unfamiliar scrawl:

_I think this is your bourgeois brand. I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.  
J_

She read it over, trying to read between the lines to something that wasn’t there, and finally tossed the note out into the bin.

Someone called three times, hanging up when the machine picked up. On the fourth time: “It’s Tyrion, calling for Jaime. Ahh, and if Brienne is available, if you’re listening, please tell him to call me. He has a terrible habit of not receiving my texts when he doesn’t want to hear what I have to say. Thank you.”

Brienne slouched down on the couch and glared at the blinking message.

She was seven chapters into Book One of the neverending fantasy series when her roommate came in.

She blinked. “Is it midnight already, Cinderella?”

“You’re reading my book. You went into my room.”

“I thought you were going to be gone a long time. I thought you had a date.”

“No date. Just a night out.” He sounded bleary. Was he drunk? He was never drunk. “Brienne — look. I promised myself I wouldn’t make you talk — we don’t _need_ to talk. Just tell me, please, if I —“ He rubbed his face, along the jaw where he needed to shave. “Were you upset because of what I did? Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head.

“You wanted all that? I didn’t misunderstand anything? Or push you too far?”

No. No misunderstandings. He found her festering infected spots and cut them open, that was all. And he held her afterwards like crying wasn’t embarrassing and childish. He’d been _kind_ to her, goddammit. Kindness without a trace of pity. “I wanted it. All of it. And I _let_ you tie me up. Do you really think I’d blame you if it went too far?”

“_I would,_” he snapped — and visibly pulled away from the edge of his temper, almost controlling himself. “You were not the only sentient being in that room, for fuck’s sake. And I spent twenty years with someone who would fuck me and hurt me and fuck me again to make me ignore it. Beg pardon if I’m a little sensitive to it.”

Twenty years with Cersei — what would that be like? “That reminds me. Tyrion called. Since we’re speaking of your family.”

“I’m sure he did,” he began: and then heard what she’d said, and went pale beneath the golden tan. “_My family?_ What do you — why would you — why do I —“

Brienne shut the book. She was suddenly horribly, horribly tired. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone into your room without permission. I shouldn’t have ... I shouldn’t know any of this. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry.”

Jaime looked a little, a very little, less paralyzed. “How did you know? When?”

“Last year. Tyrion left a message about her — don’t you _ever_ answer when he calls you? and ...”

“If he were your brother, you’d avoid him sometimes, too. He simply reeks with self-righteousness.” He sank unto the couch. “I should have told you.”

“Why? It’s nothing to me who gets your dick wet. You’re my roommate.”

“Oh,” said Jaime. “So we’re _roommates_ again. Last week we were friends, two days ago I had you tied to my bed with my tongue in your cunt while you moaned my name and begged me to go on —. But yes, we’re only roommates. I see that. How silly of me.”

“Don’t.” Her fucking voice shook.

“And I guess you never think of me when you’re hot and desperate. Like I never think of you. Or is what I want not your business, either?”

She stammered. “This week ... this week has been ... it’s not usually like this.”

“Brienne,” he said, “I think about you almost every day. I fantasize, and please don’t make me say that again because it is entirely humiliating.”

No. “You don’t really.”

“You know that I do. We do it anywhere, everywhere. My bed or yours, in the hall or on the floor or on the counters in the kitchen ... Sometimes you’re in jeans and sometimes it’s those tiny shorts you wear to bed and sometimes you’re in the shower, naked and dripping, and I join you — or you’re sweating, after a run —“

She was blushing hot, not entirely from embarrassment. “You slept with Cersei to make me jealous.”

“Did it work?” he said — with a quick flash of the old confidence.

And Brienne kissed him.

_Again_ he pulled away. “This is an absolutely terrible idea.”

The look on his face made her stomach twist. “Do you have any better ones?”

He shook his head, and touched her face, and leaned in to kiss her again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> into the woods & out of the woods & happy ever after.

No rush this time, no silk ties or fumbling hands; they went down the hall to the bedrooms, Brienne first, leading him to hers.

She tried to kick her dirty clothes out of his line of sight and regretted it at once: it only brought the mess to his attention, and then he was laughing at her, shaking his head. “It’s so _bourgeois_ to worry about the state of the floors.”

“You’ll never let me forget that, will you?”

“Not for a moment. The cheek! to scold me like that when all I wanted was to hold you down and —“ He kissed her, long and slow.

“No kissing, right,” said Brienne, already breathless. “Didn’t we agree on no kissing?”

“I should have gagged you,” said Jaime; he was over her now, pressing her into the bed, biting marks along her shoulders. “I could do it now. I’m strong enough.”

“I’d rather something else in my mouth. Roll over.”

She took her time over it, while Jaime kept fairly still — an impressive display of patience while his cock stood up and his thighs, she found, were trembling just a little. God.

“I’ve been thinking about this. About your cock.”

He shut his eyes. “Only good things.”

Instead of replying Brienne took the head in her mouth and held it motionless a while, her hands holding down his hips; he was desperate to push upwards. Inside her.

She wanted him somewhere else. She pulled away and licked just once, making him swear —

“Naughty words, Lannister”

— and took him again, wrapping her hand on what she could swallow but didn’t want to. His hands were clutching the bedclothes, deliberately keeping off her head, and when he did arch up she held him down easily enough.

And Jaime moaned.

It was deep in his throat, more a growl than a roar. He tasted of sour and salt, like swallowing the ocean, and yes she felt burned where he’d been, all along her skin like she had been laying out too long in the sun. Pinkly raw.

Sweet boy, lovely boy. Horrible rude annoying argumentative darling. He was saying hungry desperate things, asking for her mouth, and she crawled up to give it to him a moment — cupping his face in her hands — he wrapped his arms around her, saying her name. _Brienne_.

She felt unmoored, loose and shamelessly grateful, light as air. A balloon on the ceiling. “Let go,” she said into his ear: a moment later he understood, loosening his arms. She fitted him inside her and sank down on his cock, shivering.

He leaned up to kiss her more and Brienne bent down to meet him. Over and over they moved together, connecting and parting in something that was part dance and part fight, a drowning and a tumbling and a little death at the end, while he swore again and she gasped into his skin, thinking: _You_.

He was sleepy afterwards and lovingly tender. It rang a few bells she didn’t want to hear.

“Are you falling in love with me?” she said, not seriously worried. “You look like you’re falling in love, Jaime Lannister. We can’t have that. This is no-strings, right?”

“Maybe one string,” said Jaime. “Or two. Nothing that can’t be cut off with a sharp knife and a bit of determination.”

“Is that what you had with your sister?”

Jaime snorted — the most inelegant thing she’d ever heard him do. “Cersei isn’t a string. She‘s an entire orchestra. And don’t think you can scare me away with words like _love_. You’ve never met my father ...”

You’ll never meet mine, Brienne thought — and for a second, she _wished_.

Jaime was still talking, of course. “God help the man in love with you. If you didn’t literally bite his head off after mating, like a cranky praying mantis, you’d probably invent some ridiculous courtship ritual. _I won’t marry anyone who can’t defeat me in single combat._”

She was laughing, couldn’t help it. “I would not.”

“You would,” he said. “Though I doubt you’d tell him about it. Why play fair?”

He was right. Not about the swordplay but about the rules. She would never tell a man her weak spots; she could only love someone who found them on his own, who didn’t ask for the story behind every scar and healing wound — someone who had enough history to understand what it meant —

She hadn’t even hesitated when Jaime offered to bind her. She actually _trusted_ him.

How dare he make her trust him?

She said: “Now that you mention it, I am feeling a little peckish.” And bit down on his ear, hard.

He squirmed away, calling her _wench_ and _tart_ and _baggage_, poking her in the ribs where she was most ticklish, looking smug and well-fucked and a bit wild, like a god fallen to earth.

Finally they settled together. Brienne pulled the blanket over both of their heads, holding it out so they could breathe.

Jaime touched her mouth: and his own turned up in a smile. “You’ve got a little blood there yet, my lady.”

Yes: she’d been feasting and fêted and fucked. Satisfied. “What happens now?” she said. “What’s the next chapter?”

“Oh, who knows. We’ve had — what? bears, butchery, and mayhem.”

“Incest.”

“Mm. And you, riding into battle with your helm down and your sword drawn. More likely to kill a man than kiss him. But who knows? Maybe things will work out for the best, and we can find some peace. Maybe,” said her lover, “we can finally get out of the goddamn woods.”


End file.
